


For Love

by amyfortuna



Series: 2016 Season of Kink (Card 1) [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Death Threats, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, In Public, Insults, Love/Hate, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor threatens Fingolfin with his sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fills my 2016 Season of Kink square for 'in public'.

Fingolfin was barely conscious of his back hitting the stone wall. The Great Square of Tirion was crowded that day, and the light of Laurelin bright, but Fingolfin could only see the wavering red plumes of Fëanor's helmet, could only sense the point of Fëanor's sword, pressing into the middle of his breast, just above the collarbone and below his throat. 

Fëanor's words were nothing more than paranoid nonsense, an echo of his own fears. Fingolfin had asked simply for restraint, never to supplant him, and yet Fëanor always seemed afraid that Fingolfin would one day try to steal his heritage away. He blinked, trying to meet Fëanor's eyes down the long, long length of the sword, trying to brush against his mind, to find the words to speak that would stop this madness. 

But Fëanor's touch, even through the length of a sword, was maddening - bringing back memories of long ago, when he had been little more than a child. In those days Fëanor had played with him, laughed with him, and then later, when, just once or twice, Fëanor had kissed him - "let me show thee how it's done, little one" - and that one time, curled up with him, head slightly buzzing from wine, when he'd kissed Fëanor, bold and unashamed of his need. That time they had touched each other, and Fingolfin had taken Fëanor into his mouth, had undone him completely. And when it was over, Fëanor, stroking his hair tenderly, had whispered words - "nothing is sweeter than thy tongue" - that Fingolfin still remembered in his dreams. 

Those dreams were unravelling before his eyes. Fingolfin's knees went weak as the tip of the sword broke the skin, and one bright drop of blood welled to the surface. A gasp escaped him. He glimpsed the fire in Fëanor's eyes and felt, for the first time in his life, the fear of death. 

"See, half-brother!" Fëanor said coldly - and they both watched the drop of blood as it rolled onto the blade and then off, splashing to the ground. "This is sharper than thy tongue." 

Fingolfin gave a choked gasp and sank to his knees. Fëanor took a step or two closer to him, pressing the sword close. There was no pain yet, as if the shock was too much, overriding his nerves, filling his senses. Fëanor went on, his voice strange and sharp, as sharp as the blade held to Fingolfin's breast. "Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls." 

Casting an anguished glance upward, Fingolfin endeavoured once more to reach out to Fëanor's mind. "I seek no mastery," he breathed, too low for any but Fëanor to hear. 

The sword crashed to the ground, and Fëanor's hand replaced it at his throat. "Speak no more lies!" he hissed, soft and deadly. "I will stop thy lying mouth, thy sharp tongue." He fumbled with his armour for a moment and a part of it fell to the ground, and then Fëanor unfastened his breeches. "Put thy mouth to better use." 

Fëanor was not yet hard when Fingolfin parted his lips and took his cock into his mouth. Even soft, he filled Fingolfin's mouth, and the taste of him was like a bolt of lightning across Fingolfin's skin, fire racing down to heat his own loins. He gave a quiet gasp around Fëanor before he set to work, licking at his brother, using every skill he had learned so many years ago. 

The square was crowded, and Fingolfin could hear gasps from the gathered assembly. Mothers hurried their young children away. Somewhere in the distance, Finwë had come out of his house and was watching, faintly distressed, clearly at a loss for what to do. 

Fingolfin was calmer now, and though he was kneeling, felt more in control. He met the eyes of some of those in the crowd with a steady look, as if to say that all was well. The cut on his breast was no longer bleeding, and it stung with an intensity that half-distracted him. He licked around Fëanor's cock, swiping at the head of him, tasting the salty warm liquid that was already beginning to seep from his slit. 

Fëanor braced one hand on the wall above his head, tangling the other into Fingolfin's long loose hair, and held his head still as he began to push into his throat. Deliberately and carefully, Fingolfin relaxed. There was a strange sort of elation fizzing through his veins. He was aroused too, and if he had been standing his erection would have been apparent to all. 

He could not breathe as Fëanor thrust into his throat, again and again, too hard and swift for him to fully catch his breath in-between the thrusts. He was light-headed, dizzy, head swimming with mingled lust and breathlessness, desperate for Fëanor to come, desperate for this to last forever. He could hear the crowd murmuring in the distance, but all his attention was focused on Fëanor. 

Their minds were closer now, and Fingolfin could not help but project all his complicated feelings - love and passion mingled with worry and fear - toward Fëanor. He could sense from Fëanor's mind an uncontrolled rage but also passionate lust and need so strong he would have laughed with joy if he had breath to do so. 

"If love thou hast for me, prove it," Fëanor said into his mind, all in a rush. "Let me fuck thee." 

"Anything, anything," Fingolfin spoke back, imbuing the words with all the longing and love he felt. Fëanor's cock slipped out of his mouth, and he turned, undoing his clothing, getting on all fours. 

Fëanor entered him with no preparation other than the slickness of Fingolfin's saliva on his cock. It burned, and he felt tears smart his eyes, but pushed back anyway, willing to take anything and everything for Fëanor. His arousal wilted somewhat, but as Fëanor began to thrust inside him, turning burning pain into a mingled pain and pleasure that sent him reeling, his cock rose again, bobbing underneath him. 

Draped over his back, Fëanor fucked him hard, pausing now and again to whisper cruel and painfully arousing things in his ear. "How many of the Noldor wouldst thou serve in this manner?" he taunted. "Maybe that is why the people love thee more than me: they know thou wilt open thy legs at the slightest provocation." 

Fingolfin closed his eyes. Fëanor was by no means his only male lover, but this was unfair, a hit below the belt. "Those who follow me do so for love," he said softly, trying to appease. "And this is the reason why I would follow thee, for love." 

Fëanor's response was a bite to the back of his neck, at first sharp with teeth, but then gentling down until it was more of a kiss. 

The ground was unyielding beneath his hands and knees; he would have scrapes there later. Fëanor relentlessly pounded into him, and Fingolfin opened his eyes and looked up again to see the that size of the crowd had at least doubled. Finwë was watching, confusion and worry written all over his face. 

Fëanor fumbled beneath him to take his cock into his hand. "Traitorous as thou art, I won't leave thee unsatisfied," he said, breath heavy against Fingolfin's ear. The touch of Fëanor's hand to his cock was sweetness itself in contrast with the pleasure-pain he felt from Fëanor fucking him. They rocked together for a long moment, and then Fingolfin knew no more, pleasure overcoming him in violent waves of red behind his eyes, even as Fëanor spurted inside him with a final powerful thrust. 

He collapsed to the ground as Fëanor withdrew from him, falling to his side against the stone wall, curling in on himself. Fëanor rose, pulling his breeches back up, gathering bits of scattered armour and the naked blade that had lain on the ground next to them the whole time they were fucking, Fingolfin's blood drying on the point of it. 

Fingolfin raised his hand to his breast, and his fingers came away sticky with dried blood. He was covered in fluids of various kinds, sweat shining on his brow and soaking his clothes, his own semen dripping from him, Fëanor's seed slowly leaking from his arse, probably mingled with blood. A strange wild happiness and satisfaction filled him. 

Fëanor stood for a long moment over him, jaw trembling, and they looked at each other. Unreadable emotions passed over Fëanor's face. He seemed about to speak - but then one of the Maiar shimmered into view beside him, pinning him with strong arms and dragging him back, away from Fingolfin. 

A gasp escaped Fingolfin's mouth. He rose, unsteady, wincing, and tried to speak with a mouth too dry to form words. But Fëanor, in custody, was already gone from the square.


End file.
